


A Prayer In The Dark

by TaraTheMeerkat



Series: In The Cold Of The Night [1]
Category: Father Brown (2013)
Genre: Angst, Catholic Guilt, Flambeau is there in spirit, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Masturbation, Or Is It?, Pre-Slash, Unrequited Love, an imaginary version of Flambeau inside Father Brown's head is there, half of this was probably a conversation for therapy but I put it in a fic instead lol, hoo boy don't take those tags lightly this fic is A Lot, is angsty masturbation a tag?, it should be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-19 07:35:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29622837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaraTheMeerkat/pseuds/TaraTheMeerkat
Summary: Alone in his room, consumed by guilt, Father Brown reflects on his feelings for Flambeau.Written as a prequel to In The Cold Of The Night, but can be read as a stand alone.
Relationships: Father Brown/M. Hercule Flambeau
Series: In The Cold Of The Night [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2176500
Comments: 3
Kudos: 2





	A Prayer In The Dark

“Oh Lord,” Father Brown murmured, as he cast his eyes upward, kneeling on his bedroom floor. “Why must you test me so?”

He had done his best to hide his homosexual feelings for all these years, to _supress_ them, with reasonable success. Becoming a priest helped; not, he thought with some guilt, that that was the only reason he had taken up the cloth, of course. This was his true calling, the way he was supposed to serve God, to help people. He could live his life in perfectly happy celibacy. That was what he had promised to do. He had sworn to obey.

Why now, after living this way perfectly happily for so many years, why _now_ should he find himself _tormented_ so? Why should he be plagued by lustful thoughts, after being nothing but pure and true for so long?

“ _Please_ ,” he murmured in desperation, his hands clasped tightly in anguished prayer. “What is it you want from me? What am I to _do_?”

It was all Flambeau, of course. It was only him. His quick wit, shining eyes, and clever hands had wormed their way into the Father’s heart and soul, burrowed deep, and now, he feared, attempting to remove him would kill the wretched priest, too.

He had done his best to convince himself his interest in the thief was purely selfless, that he merely wanted to _help_ the man, to save his soul, to bring him back to God. But when he saw him up close, in person, when he saw the way his eyes crinkled up at the corners in amusement, the way his hair fell onto this forehead when ruffled, the way a muscle in his jaw clenched almost undetectably when annoyed, the way he toyed with a cigarette in his fingertips, the way his lips looked when the cigarette was removed, lightly parted, while he exhaled thick smoke, the way those same lips looked when they smiled at him…

Father Brown groaned in wretched, miserable pleasure at the memory. Why was he allowing himself to give in to such wicked, lustful thoughts? And why did it have to be _him?_

He wondered what Flambeau would say. What he would think of him if he knew _this_ was how he thought of him.

What he would think if he knew about the priest’s growing erection, just at the _thought_ of Flambeau.

Would he be horrified? Disgusted? Would he turn tail and leave, and never return?

Or would he be amused? _Delighted_ to have corrupted the good Father so? Would he make _sport_ of the Father’s situation?

He imagined the thief beside him now, kneeling on the floor of his cluttered little bedroom, warm against his side, despite the chill breeze. He imagined clever hands on his body, touching him in places no-one had dared to touch in years. He shivered, phantom fingers caressing at his thigh. So vivid was the thought, he could almost fancy he felt hot breath on his ear, laughing out a bitter laugh.

_“The holy Father, all dressed up before God,”_ whispered the imagined Flambeau in his ear. _“All weak and wanting, for me.”_

He imagined Flambeau rubbing at his crotch, through his trousers, and subconsciously spread his knees further, to accommodate a hand that wasn’t there, that could never really be there.

_“Which of us is it you’re on your knees for, Father?”_ whispered the cruel Flambeau-shaped figure in his head. _“Is it really God you kneel for, Father? Or do you kneel for **me** , Father?”_

“Flambeau,” the priest breathed, to no-one. Sweat trickled down his forehead. He was alone, save for God and the demons in his own mind.

_“Perverted old priest,”_ hissed the imagined Flambeau. Father Brown could almost feel sharp fingers digging into his arm. The pain and the mockery were somehow preferable to opening his eyes, to acknowledging how alone he really was. He swallowed heavily, choking on his own guilt. He palmed himself through his trousers, reeling at how painfully hard he was. He whimpered, ashamed, and miserable, and, most dreadful of all, more aroused than he’d been in years.

He squeezed his eyes shut tighter, willing the figure of Flambeau even more vivid within his head. It was somehow easier that way. He imagined it was instead Flambeau’s hand he was rutting against. Imagined it was Flambeau currently unbuttoning his trousers, and slipping a hand inside. He imagined it was Flambeau’s slender fingers currently wrapping themselves around his cock, and not his own sinful digits at all.

He moaned aloud as he began to stroke, a filthy, wanton noise that shocked even him as it slipped forth from his lips.

_“How **delicious** ,”_ the imaginary Flambeau hissed in his ear, a sneer in his voice. _“The pious Father Brown, moaning like **whore** for me.”_

Father Brown could picture the thief there so vividly, he could almost smell the distinct aroma of his cigarettes. Almost feel the hot breath on his neck. He wondered how Flambeau’s mouth would feel on his neck, _nipping_ at it. Wondered how that mouth would feel on his own. Kissing him. Forcefully, perhaps? Or gently? Passionately? He silenced that thought with a shake of the head. That was a dangerous thought. Surely even Flambeau would never cross that line in the name of _sport,_ and the alternative, that he should actually _want_ to kiss him…

That was a dangerous thought.

_“What would your parishioners think, Father, if they only could see you now?”_ whispered his imagined tormentor. _“What would your little flock think of their beloved priest, if they were to see him, on his knees like this, panting and moaning, **debasing** himself for another man like this? For a criminal? Giving up all his dignity and integrity for a sinner? Oh! But you’re just as much of a sinner as I am, aren’t you, Father?”_ fingers tightened around his cock, the pumping increased its rhythm. It was only his own hand, he knew this. He was alone. But within his head, as long as his eyes were closed, he could almost believe it was Flambeau, it was _his_ nimble fingers, it was that same hand that tormented his thoughts, the memory of a cigarette being toyed between those same fingers, and the memory of that same hand brushing against his in Lysette Penhallick’s tomb haunting him as he lay away at night. _“Look at you,”_ breathed the cruel phantom voice. _“What honestly makes you think you have the right to preach to me? You’re no better than I am, Father. At least I have the good grace to **admit** what I am. You may hide what you are from the rest of the world, Father Brown, but you can’t hide from God. What **must** He think of you, Father. He’s watching you right now, isn’t He?”_

Father Brown opened his eyes with a gasp. He was alone in his room, kneeling in the floor, a crucifix above his head, his cock in his hand. He opened his mouth as though to say something, another frenzied prayer, perhaps, but all that escaped his lips was a pitiful whimper. He closed his eyes again, willing the cruel imagined form of Flambeau back, for he found it hurt less, somehow, than being alone.

_“Hush now, dear Father,”_ whispered the imagined Flambeau. Kind now, and gentle, which somehow felt so, so much worse. What right had he to imagine such _kindness_ from a man who would most likely be disgusted to even know of such fantasies? What right had he to long for such _tenderness,_ even while longing to break his sacred vows? But even as he thought this, he couldn’t help but imagine arms wrapped around him, lips pressed to his cheek, a soft, comforting voice at his ear. _“You’re alright, Father,”_ the Flambeau-shaped figure in his mind murmured. _“You’ll be alright. I’m here. I’m here.”_

Flambeau wasn’t here, except, as ever, inside the Father’s head, and his heart. Nevertheless, in his head, he felt the thief’s arms around him, heard him whispering a tender _“shhhhhh”_ into his ear, felt his soft fingers around his cock, stroking him gently, but with a certain desperation, and a certain frenzied pace. He rocked on his heels, whimpering under his breath, wishing he could wrap his arms around Flambeau, _cling_ to him.

He couldn’t. He was alone.

He felt his orgasm approaching, and didn’t have the strength to fight it. He imagined Flambeau’s arms wrapped around him, holding him steady. He imagined fingers in his hair, kisses being pressed to his cheek. He let his orgasm wash over him, juddering, crying out as his seed spilled over his trembling hand.

He caught his breath, and opened his eyes.

Flambeau wasn’t there. He was alone in the presbytery, dishevelled and soaked in sweat, kneeling in a pathetic crumpled heap on the floor, his spent cock still held in his own sticky hand.

He was alone, save for God. Alone in his room, he wept, and he prayed.


End file.
